


A Little Christmas Spirit

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of ellipses..., Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Christmas Fluff, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, No Angst, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 02:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13090167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: Sherlock should really learn NOT to tune John out when he's talking. He might just be missing something important.





	A Little Christmas Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an alternate universe where Moriarty, Mary and the Fall never happen. It's Christmas after all!

“… blow job?”

Sherlock sits very, _very_ still, barely daring to breathe, knowing that he’s missed something of vital importance. He slides his eyes to the left, hoping to catch sight of his flatmate in his peripheral vision. He needs data to answer what is very clearly a question - lots and lots of data. But John is standing slightly too far behind him to catch a glimpse, denying him the clues he needs to work out a response that might prove to be critical. Sherlock is ninety-seven per cent certain that John just asked him if he wanted…

“Sherlock? Blow job? What do you think?”

To be fair, John has been talking for several minutes about…something. Sherlock wracks his brain for the topic of John’s monologue, but he recalls thinking the subject matter boring and tuning out after the words, _‘So, about tonight…’_ The rest of it is a blur of John moving around the kitchen, remembering to hum whenever John was quiet for a more than ten seconds and being irritated that he was distracted by the way John’s long-sleeved t-shirt stretches across his shoulders and chest while he was trying to concentrate on his spore samples.

So what should he say? This is already the second time of asking (at least) and John will get impatient, possibly to the extent that he might take his silence as something other than surprise. Breathing out slowly, Sherlock hopes his voice doesn’t betray him. “Well, that sounds very nice.”

_Very nice?_

Ugh! Sherlock wants to stab himself with his pipette. Now John will think that he is uninterested and withdraw the offer when the opposite is quite clearly the case. And if it’s taken him this long to find the courage to ask for…offer… such an intimacy, God only knows how long it might be before he says it again. If ever!

“I mean yes! Yes…I’d like that. If you’re amenable.”

_Amenable???_

Has he completely lost his faculty for rational thought? Good God! Death by pipette is too good for him!

Amenable is John allowing Sherlock to keep body parts in the salad crisper or Sherlock tolerating John’s hideous knitwear around the flat. It’s not offering up his mouth for Sherlock’s pleasure or, better still, offering to allow Sherlock to go to his knees for him and…

Actually, is that better?

He can’t decide. It’s an impossible decision to make without empirical data. An orgasm on John’s tongue sounds superb, but to have John on his lips, maybe with his hand carding through his hair as he gently thrusts…

John has gone silent – probably confused by the amenable comment. Sherlock closes his eyes. Breathes. Swallows. He leans back from his microscope and carefully turns to face his soon-to-be lover (if he hasn’t completely and utterly messed this up already.)

John stands in front of the window, the gaudy lights on their Christmas tree echoing madly from every reflective surface in the sitting room. His mouth is hanging open slightly, his eyes are wide and fixed on Sherlock, and a slow, dusky blush is creeping into his cheeks. He has a brown liqueur bottle in one hand and in the other there’s a book... with a picture of a glass filled with an alarmingly yellow drink underneath the words _Cocktail Recipes for Every Occasion._

Oh.

Oh, dear God.

 _So, about tonight…_ tonight, the night of Molly’s Christmas party… the party at which each guest is supposed to bring the ingredients of a cocktail for everyone to share. A cocktail like… Bailey’s, that vile coffee stuff in John’s hand, whipped cream and…is it Amaretto or the mint one?

Not the point!

Either way this concoction, apparently, is amusingly titled a _Blow Job._

They stare at each other with desperate intensity. Sherlock thinks he should just walk away and …well, just keep walking, really. John’s mouth is opening and closing as if he’s trying to make words. Someone has to say something, or they’ll be stuck here forever in the circle of hell reserved for the quintessentially British sins of uncomfortable admissions and embarrassing misunderstandings.

“I…”

“Alright then,” John blurts, then immediately blinks, looking as if the words were a surprise to him.

It’s Sherlock’s turn to lose the ability to form coherent speech, and all he seems capable of is an upward inflection to the humiliating whimpering noise that he makes involuntarily. “Whuhuh?”

Placing the dusty bottle and the book on the desk with exaggerated care, John subconsciously wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans – a nervous gesture that Sherlock has noted before. “Alright then,” John says, more determined than confident, his chin lifting and his shoulders going back, just daring Sherlock to tell him no.

There’s more awkward silence as Sherlock struggles to see through John’s bravado. As much as he’d like to take him at his word, Sherlock knows that he can’t with good conscience accept John’s offer at face value.

“John,” he says gently, trying to smile a little to let him know it’s okay while acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation. He flicks his fingers towards the discarded bottle. “You meant…”

But John Watson is not a man to be underestimated and in the time it has taken Sherlock to decide what to say, he has crossed the distance between them.

Seated on a stool at his microscope, Sherlock is shorter than John and has to tip his head back slightly to see his face. John crowds him, finding a space between his knees. He searches Sherlock’s eyes for only a moment before he leans down and presses a soft kiss to bow of Sherlock’s upper lip then another to the hinge of his jaw. He lingers there, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes and breathes, sending all the touch receptors in Sherlock’s neck into paroxysms of sensation data.

“John?” Sherlock asks softly.

“Don’t.” He pulls back far enough to meet Sherlock’s gaze and licks his lips, the slightest hint of a twinkle in his eye – recognising the irony of how they got here. But the expression fades swiftly and becomes something more wistful and raw.

“But you didn’t… you don’t…”

What is he saying? Why is he saying anything? John’s being very clear that although it wasn’t his intention to proposition him at 2 p.m. on a damp December afternoon, he’s more than on board with the plan now it’s here.

John shakes his head slightly. “But I do,” he says matter-of-factly. “ You have no idea how much I do, actually.” He shrugs a little at the admission and his hand settles on Sherlock’s shoulder.

He brushes a thumb against the skin of Sherlock’s throat just above his collar, sending a rush of new responsiveness to sweep sweetly through Sherlock’s body. He can feel all the hairs on his forearms raise instantly with a thrilling prickle.

Knowing that he should at least consider the implications of this step and actually talk to John before they go any further, he nevertheless finds himself reaching for John’s hand and being led into the sitting room. The courage his flatmate has shown in not allowing them to laugh this off or pretend it never happened is considerable and even if Sherlock wanted to say no (which he doesn’t, thank you very much. He’s quite happy here), he couldn’t do that to John. To anybody else, of course, he could be as blunt and insensitive as he pleased, but John has always been the exception.

Positioned in front of his chair, John is staring at him with such an intense look of desire on his face, Sherlock can’t quite believe he hasn’t noticed the possibility of his attraction before.

He reaches up to run his fingertips along Sherlock’s jaw, up around his ear and into his hair and Sherlock has to supress the shudder that seems to arrive out of nowhere. He’s imagined this many times - him finding the right words at the right time and John responding in kind. He’s always felt it to be a kind of violation of their friendship, but now he sees that John has considered this possibility too. He knows what he wants without hesitation and Sherlock drops pliantly into his seat when John puts a hand against his chest.

He kneels slowly and deliberately, his eyes dropping to where Sherlock is ragingly hard already, just from the want on John’s face. His fingers on the zip of Sherlock’s trousers are steady and skilled while Sherlock’s heart is pounding so hard he thinks it must be visible through his shirt. And when John’s hand draws him out and closes around him, Sherlock thinks he might lose touch with consciousness for a few moments, because John is staring up at him with a tiny, smug smile on his face as he takes the tip of Sherlock’s length into his mouth.

And now he’s staring at the ceiling because he doesn’t seem to be able to coordinate his muscles sufficiently to stop his head from dropping back. This has the added benefit that he cannot see John’s mouth stretched around him or see his eyes fluttering shut as he concentrates on Sherlock’s pleasure, because that will surely culminate in him climaxing within seconds. Oh, but he can feel and that itself is utterly overwhelming. He’s reacting to John’s devotions and it’s so much more than he’d imagined. John’s tongue is clever and everywhere and the rhythm of his suction is echoing a resonance along every nerve in his body and… and…

This isn’t going to last very long at all and he cannot find it in himself to care.

So he may as well look down… directly into John’s adoring eyes and…

…

… oh.

…oh, God.

John hums around him as he spills one more time into his waiting mouth, and as the aftershocks still shudder through him so exquisitely.

There’s a regular rustling of fabric and a distinctive, familiar sound of skin on desperate skin. Despite Sherlock’s apparent lack of a skeleton, he can’t let this opportunity pass and he pounces. Actually, it’s more of a flop than a pounce, but John seems appreciative anyway, trapped under Sherlock’s weight and with Sherlock’s hand slapping his own away and replacing it with cool, clumsy fingers that quickly learn the heft and girth of him. Part of him wants to savour this, take his time to find out how to pleasure John, but the ‘pleases’ and the way John is whispering his name are too perfect and he only has time to stroke him three times from root to tip before John is groaning and shaking his way through a most satisfactory orgasm.

And then they’re just breathing, panting, and Sherlock wonders whether it would be rude to unhand John’s penis now because the floor is revealing itself to be supremely uncomfortable, so this next part might be awkward…

Except John just looks up at him and chuckles, fond and open. “You _never_ listen to me! And to think that used to annoy me.” He’s still flushed and soft looking, even though Sherlock has quite obviously just wiped his sticky hand on John’s shirt because, well, as much fun as that was, it was messy.

Sherlock finds himself returning the smile. “I listen if you’re talking about interesting things,” he protests gently.

John lifts an eyebrow and tips his head at their current position. “Is this interesting enough for you?”

Humming, Sherlock settles his weight a little more comfortably, finding a place that he can share John’s warmth and still see his face. It’s actually rather nice just laying here watching the early twilight creep into the room and the mad fairy lights twinkle unnatural colours to hold the dark back a while longer.

John takes a deeper breath, hold it, then speaks. “There are other cocktails in that book you know. So maybe when we come back from Molly’s we could have a look?” John’s face has become a little pinched, a little tighter.

Oh! Doubt. Is that doubt? John wants something and doesn’t know if…

Oh!

_Oh!_

Well, Sherlock can clear that one up right away. “Is there one called, ‘Forever?’”

John is quiet for an unnecessarily long time before his arms come up around Sherlock’s body and pull him closer still. “I don’t know, but if there isn’t one, I happen to know this brilliant, handsome chemist. He’ll think of something.”

And John’s right.

Sherlock is thinking about it already.

Fin


End file.
